


Under Moonlit Skies

by transkeithkogane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author is trans, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Minor Sirius Black/James Potter, POV Sirius Black, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24602158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transkeithkogane/pseuds/transkeithkogane
Summary: jk rowling said that only women have periods so i wanted to write sirius black getting his period so that's it. that's the fic.
Relationships: Sirius Black/James Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 100





	Under Moonlit Skies

**Author's Note:**

> hp was a huge part of my childhood growing up and it really disheartened me as a trans person to see rowling's ignorant comments on twitter. sirius black has always been my favorite character because i saw a lot of myself and my struggles in him. i wanted to create a story where other trans masc hp fans could feel seen and find support they might not have in their own lives. 
> 
> that being said: this fic contains graphic descriptions of menstruating, mentions of dysphoria, and mentions of transphobia so please read at your own risk! 
> 
> also huge thanks to hunter for being my beta reader! love you bb

There’s something freeing about being Padfoot. About feeling cold earth beneath his paws. About the way he can scent deer on the wind a mile off and can hardly feel the downpour of rain through his thick charcoal coat. Sometimes Sirius thinks he might prefer it to being up on two legs. But it’s not the smells or the athleticism that Sirius truly appreciates. It’s the fact that it’s a body of his own choosing. It’s something he picked for himself, a skin that doesn’t feel out of place or just a bit off, like a shirt that itches around the collar. 

When he runs with the rest of the Marauders, they’re all free under the expanse of starlight. But the nights always come to an end and Sirius feels an ache in his chest for coveting a time of month that leaves Remus shaky and weak for days after. And he understands intimately, the cruel cage of inhabiting a foreign form, the anguish of knowing it’s wrong and being unable to do anything about it. 

So he takes to going out by himself, when all the thoughts in his head go around and around so often that they tie themselves into one big knot of anxiety. He makes up an excuse to get the others off his back and runs for the forest at the edge of the castle grounds. Sometimes he stays out until dawn is stretching pink and lilac across the darkness of sky, when the doves begin to call softly through the trees to signal the arrival of morning. 

Tonight, the moon is still high overhead when he reaches a familiar clearing. Greying mushrooms dot across a blanket of pine needles, and his legs go from four to two as he passes the last few pines, their wide branches shielding him as he returns to himself. He grows taller and taller, dark fur shifting to long locks that fall all around the sharp jut of his jaw, contrast against cloudy grey eyes. He’s painfully human when he pads barefoot across pine needles, the moonlight reflecting back from his pale skin. 

There’s no sound, save for the occasional whisper of wind against the branches, the rhythmic humming of crickets. He tilts his chin up, lets his head fall back until he’s staring up at the winking stars above him, hair cascading over his shoulders and down his back in silken waves. 

He lets himself be alone. 

Alone with the trees, alone with the stars, alone with himself. These days, he’s all hard muscle, strong lines he thinks even James might be a little jealous of. But if he misses his carefully scheduled potions, all of this fades and disappears into soft curves of hips, round cheeks and plump thighs. Just the thought is enough to make his skin crawl, flashes his old face, his old body in his mind’s eye. 

He hurries forward under the moonlight, trying to outrun his own thoughts, but memories collide with reality when he feels a damp warmth between his thighs, freezes in horror at the sensation. He reaches down for confirmation, already sure of what he’s going to find. His fingertips come back red with blood and his shoulders shrink, like his own body wants to curl in on itself. 

He had found the potion scribbled on the back of a charmed brick of Diagon Alley, had only been able to identify said brick from a cryptic series of ancient runes etched into the stones outside the White Wyvern in Knockturn Alley. One look at himself in the mirror tells him it works, melts all the soft roundness of femininity away. But there’s one very obvious flaw that he has yet to figure out and it’s staring him right in the face. 

He can’t get his period to stop. 

And of fucking course, this nasty biological function happens at the most inopportune times, like when he’s out in the middle of nowhere with only one change of clothes and no real way to deal with the problem. 

He gets dressed begrudgingly, slips his rumpled white dress shirt on, the one he wears under his boldly emblazoned Gryffindor robes. Buuttons up the front with deliberate slowness like if he takes enough time, the problem will sort itself out. Eventually though, Sirius is faced with the task of pulling on his boxers, feels warmth smear across the clean fabric in a way that makes his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. He tugs his corduroys on lightning fast, the kind of speed only rivaled by Peter when they manage to give him a good scare in the middle of the night. When he’s fully dressed, he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and starts to walk.

It takes a good ten minutes to hike to the edge of the forest, the weight of his wand in his pocket reassuring him that he’ll be able to fight off whatever creatures may be lurking in the darkness. Winding his way up the grounds takes just as long, his sudden appearance startling students who have snuck out past curfew to lounge on the lush grounds, bundled tight in wool sweaters. 

By the time he’s back to the wide double door entrance of the castle, there’s that familiar stickiness between his legs and the maze of staircases winding up to the Gryffindor common room only deflates his ego further. He should have taken the map. He can see the worn piece of parchment now, folded up and tucked in the pocket of James’ robes that the other man had haphazardly tossed over the foot of Sirius’s bed the night before, left the fabric in a crumpled heap while he snuck under the covers and pressed his cold nose to the back of Sirius’s neck. 

James had been curled up in an armchair in the common room, nursing a bottle of Firewhiskey when Sirius had slipped out. His best friend had caught his gaze as he was pushing open the portrait, brows furrowed just a bit in unspoken worry, a silent plea to not disappear for too long. 

But sometimes all Sirius wants is to disappear, wants to shed clothes and skin for fur and teeth, all sharp eyes and sharper claws. He wants to run until his lungs ache, until he’s so deep in the Forbidden Forest the only thing he can do to get out is follow his nose back to where he came from. It’s days like these when his own body becomes so unbearable, he’d rather be anything else. 

Now he knows why the feeling set in, like some fucked up sixth sense, like he can sense when he’s going to bleed all over his favorite pair of boxers. As he reaches the top of the first staircase, all grand and wide and picturesque, he already feels like he needs about twelve showers, one for every step he’s climbed. Why didn’t he take the map? He cuts off the stairs in the first floor corridor anyway, works from memory to slip back behind a tapestry portraying the Great Wizarding War of 1692. He’s sure it’s a fascinating work of art, but right now it’s the secret passage behind that he’s more interested in, makes sure he’s a ways into the darkness of the tunnel before he whispers, “Lumos,” stares around surreptitiously as though someone might appear and catch sight of his embarrassment. 

The secret passage brings him out on the seventh floor, just shy of Gryffindor Landing, and he hurries on ahead as he picks spiderwebs from the waves of his hair. The corridor is thankfully silent as he approaches the portrait of the Fat Lady, hopefully the last hurdle he’ll face in this ill-fated journey. She’s dozing and Sirius clears his throat just loud enough that she stirs, crosses his arms over his chest when she casts him a disdainful glance. 

“Oh hello dear.” They’ve never gotten along and Sirius can hear the condescension in the sharp snap of her words. 

“I supposed the rules don’t apply to someone like you.” The statement is innocent enough, but Sirius sees the sneering turn of her lips and sets his jaw for a fight.

“As lovely as it would be to exchange barbs, I’m in a hurry,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. 

His annoyance earns a soft snicker as she flicks a perfectly coiled curl over her shoulder, leans in like she’s examining a bug caught under the light of a magnifying glass. 

“It’s an absolute disgrace that Dumbledore allows you to parade around here like this. How can he allow you to come and go to the boys’ dormitory as you please?” She looks distraught about the very notion of it, fans herself with a hand as she continues, “Godric would be turning in his grave. They all would-”

“Golden snidget,” Sirius deadpans as he crosses his arms over his chest. There’s really no time for argument. Every second he spends arguing with her here is another second his treacherous body spends leaking all over himself. Which he supposes is exactly her point. 

The portrait’s tirade continues, muffled as the canvas swings forward and Sirius climbs through into the warmth of the common room. The fire is nothing but embers now and the room is dark save for a fourth year reading in the corner by the soft light of her wand. Thankfully, she pays little attention when Sirius beelines for the staircase at the far end of the room, simply nods her head towards the fire when their gaze meets. 

He’s sure his briefs are past saving anyway so he pauses, follows her line of sight to the armchair closest to the dying fire, sees a familiar head of shaggy black hair bent forward. He pads closer and sees that James has fallen asleep in the chair, a nearly empty bottle of Firewhiskey balanced precariously in his crossed arms. 

A fond smile plays around Sirius’ lips and he leans forward with the intention of grabbing the bottle, setting it aside and coaxing James up to the soft comfort of his bed, but he feels that horrible, gut-wrenching dripping sensation and he forgoes the gesture in favor of sprinting up the stairs, makes a silent promise to return to help clean up his friend. 

Never in his life has he cursed the layout of Gryffindor Tower more as he takes the steps two at a time to get all the way to the sixth floor of dorms. He’s breathing hard enough by the time he gets there that he’s afraid he’ll wake the rest of the sleeping boys. And that’s really the only thing he’s trying to avoid at this point. He’s rather avoid any slurs or insults that might be thrown his way if they happened to find out he’s not your average guy. 

His bed is two in from the end, past Peter’s and Remus’s, and he tiptoes there, kneels down at the foot of the bed so he can open his trunk. He’s trying to be as quiet as possible, shifts around the mess of contents delicately in search of the small vial of potion Remus had made him the month before. It’s fairly new, something Remus had concocted to work in conjunction with the other potion Sirius was taking. It’d taken a few weeks to perfect, but now it stops his period in its tracks. But the problem is, it only works if he can take it and, the further he digs into the trunk, the more his hands start to shake, actions turning frantic. He tugs out robes and schoolbooks, tries to run his fingers around the edge of the miniature cauldron he’s got for potions work, but he comes up empty-handed. And he’s wasting time. With a low growl of frustration, he snatches his pajamas off his bed and slips away. 

Luckily it’s late enough that the bathroom is silent and dark. Sirius opts not to light the candles along the walls, instead uses his wand to illuminate the toilet stall as he locks the door behind him. He holds the slender wood between his teeth as he gets the waistband of his pants open, tugs them and his boxers off. There’s a deep stain in the fabric now, dark and wet. His thighs come away slick as well, stained bright red as he swallows down the lump in his throat. 

It really shouldn’t be that big of a deal. He gets a handful of toilet paper, wipes hastily at his thighs first, tries to scrub away any evidence of what his body is forcing him to endure. The stained white tissues are tossed into the toilet where they wilt and tint the water around them. Then the process repeats and repeats and repeats. And he doesn’t really feel clean, but at least he doesn’t feel so dirty anymore.

He’s so concentrated on the task at hand, that the echo of footsteps catches him off guard, makes him freeze, toilet paper still in hand. The footsteps make their way down the row of stalls and Sirius thinks maybe it’s someone going for a late night shower and he’ll be able to sneak out before they realize anyone else is here. But just when the person reaches the end of the row of stalls, the steps backtrack and pause in front of the door, like someone is trying to spot the shadow of his feet under the edge of the stall. 

Sirius tosses the last bit of paper into the toilet, like he can somehow destroy all the evidence, like whoever’s waiting for him is going to break in and catch him at his most vulnerable. There’s a gentle knock at the door and his whole body is taut like the string of a bow. 

“Padfoot?” James’ voice floats through the bathroom door and Sirius relaxes only a fraction, grabs his wand from his mouth so he can speak. 

“Bloody hell, Prongs. Can’t a guy get any alone time around here?” he jokes, wishes he didn’t sound so guilty, like he’s been caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t be. 

It’s not that James doesn’t know. All the Marauders know and James most of all has been privy to all of Sirius’ darkest secrets, his deepest shames and most embarrassing moments, but Sirius doesn’t enjoy sharing this side of himself with them. This seems… wrong, seems like something that would repulse even the closest of friends. Remus knows only out of necessity, because he was the only one with the skill required to make that handy little potion that Sirius couldn’t find tonight. 

James’ feet are still planted directly outside the stall and Sirius has to bite back another sharp retort, wants to spit poison just to get James to go away, to force him back and out of the bathroom because he doesn’t want James to see him like this, with his pants still around his ankles, bloody tissues, and his own self-loathing sitting like a rock in his stomach. He leans his forehead against the wooden door of the stall, draws an uneven breath as he feels the heat of tears at the back of his eyes, balls his hands into fists. When he opens his eyes, he can see the scuffed up toes of James’ trainers, the white rubber beaten to all hell. 

James’ voice is warm and smooth like Butterbeer when he speaks. “Come on,” he coaxes like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “It’s me.” 

Sirius draws another slow breath, shakes his head even though there’s no way for James to see the refusal. He flinches when James raps his knuckles against the door again. 

“I’m not above breaking down the door.” 

The comment is enough to draw a disgruntled huff out of Sirius, but his lips twitch a hint of a smile. He hesitates long enough that James grabs hold of the top of the stall and shakes hard enough that the wood protests. Sirius is spurred into action by that, tugs his pants back up before he undoes the lock and opens the door just a crack. 

That sliver of entrance is all James needs and his best friend is shoving his way into the stall before Sirius can protest. There’s not much space for both of them. James has gotten tall the past couple of years and they’ve both gotten broader, shoulders knocking against one another as James tries to maneuver his way into the cramped space. 

“Oi, scoot over,” he urges as though they’re trying to squeeze into a magic wardrobe to hide from Mcgonnagal, not invading Sirius’ very embarrassing, very private moment. Sirius tries his best to squeeze back into the corner of the stall, to stay as far from James as possible, as though he can sink right into the wood itself to stay hidden. 

“What do you want?” He just barely holds back the tirade of expletives that are threatening to spill over. He’s doing a worse job of holding the tears in. There’s one unruly drop trailing down his cheek, making a getaway for his chin as he tries to wipe it away. And James still won’t just stand back, begins to move even closer until there’s no way for Sirius to get around him, to block him out. 

Sirius isn’t really sure why the other man is even there in the first place until he holds up the small amber vial Sirius had been so frantically searching for earlier. “Found it behind your trunk,” he gets hold of Sirius’ wrist with his free hand, presses the small bottle into his palm. 

“Thanks.” The word comes out a whisper and, when Sirius tips his chin up, James is staring so intently that it makes his stomach flip with nervousness. There’s nothing threatening in James’ gaze, only a constant, steady attentiveness that catches Sirius off guard. He’s never had someone close to him like James, never had someone care so unapologetically for him, without any real reason for it. Sirius might be the one who turns into a dog, but James’ loyalty is unrivaled. 

“I’d help you no matter what, Pads.” James’ voice is a touch deeper now, closer to a hushed whisper than his normal boisterous tone. It’s the voice he uses when they lay in bed together, when they stay up talking to the odd hours of the night, until the sun is streaking grey across the sky. 

James leans in tentatively, rocks up onto the balls of his feet so he can press a kiss to Sirius’ temple, brushes his long hair behind his ear. James smells like Firewhiskey and spices and Sirius instinctively leans in so he can bury his nose in the other man’s chest, inhales all the smells that remind Sirius of James, remind him of home. It’s when James pulls back that Sirius finally cracks, feels the sting of tears in his eyes and can’t stop them despite the very clear panic on James’ face when he sees the upset. 

“Shit, Sirius. I’m sorry-” The other man seems to be scrambling for words and Sirius shakes his head quickly. 

“It’s not you.” It’s nothing that James did. It’s all the memories of the times that Sirius cried all alone in the bathroom, had tried and failed to hold himself together when there was no one else. “You don’t have to be here,” he insists, rubs at his eyes to try to hide the fresh wave of tears. It’s not comfortable for James to be here, to see all the ugly parts of Sirius that make him want to come apart at the seams. 

But the other man only runs his fingers through Sirius’s hair, brushes a stray tear off a high cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.” James’ smile is so bright Sirius thinks the sun would be jealous. He’d tell him as much but James tugs him back into his chest, holds him that way until he feels bold enough to face the rest of the world again.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback, comments, and kudos are always, always appreciated! catch me on ac twt @dilftopia if you want i guess


End file.
